starting now (you're on my routine)
by chalantness
Summary: This won't be the first time her hair will be dyed for the job.


**Title:** _starting now (you're on my routine)_ **  
Rating:** PG-13  
 **Word Count:** ~2,800  
 **Characters:** Steve/Natasha  
 **Summary:** This won't be the first time her hair will be dyed for the job.

 **A/N:** I... really don't know what this is. But by the time I realized I had no idea what I was aiming for, I'd gotten almost 3,000 words out. So I'm posting it anyway.

 **starting now (you're on my routine)**

It was a routine she'd done dozens and dozens of times before: sit in a chair, flip through a file and get briefed on her assignment and her mark as a team of makeup artists and hair stylists went to work. Two hours to get the look complete meant that it had to be simple, something she could learn to do herself because she would be keeping the cover up over an extended period, away from the espionage department. Three to four hours meant that the job wasn't expected to run long, so more effort was spent on making sure her cover could withstand whatever she'd encounter. In that case, a select few of her stylists would be on call for any crucial touch-ups, but it usually never comes to that. She has an amazing team.

She gets the call at 7:00 in the morning, and by the half hour, she's settling into a chair as Nick leans against the vanity across from her, reading off a file.

"He has a type, and very basic needs he makes sure get fulfilled," Nick informs, passing her the tablet.

She arches an eyebrow. "So, this is a honeypot," she notes. She's not surprised. The guy in the picture doesn't _seem_ like he could be a mafia head, but looks rarely mean anything ( _obviously_ ) and this man has a billion-dollar company to distract from his involvement in inhuman trafficking and experimentation.

"Could get rough," Nick adds, tapping his head. "Wigs would be too risky."

It makes sense, and this won't be the first time her hair will be dyed for the job, so she doesn't think much of it. She likes her hair – loves the color and the way it curls – and she'd rather not do something so drastic to it for an assignment that'll last maybe a week. But it's just hair. It'll grow back, and she knows that the stylists will take good care of it.

"So," she starts, making herself comfortable. (It'll be a while.) "Other than the fact that he has a thing for blondes, what else is there to know about this guy?"

... ...

A quarter to noon, Natasha steps onto the elevator, catching her reflection in the glass as Nick hits the button for their floor. She presses her lips together, touching the tips of her hair where it sits at her collarbone. She knew she was going to be blonde. She didn't know she was going to be _this_ blonde. Her strands are practically silver, that's how light the color is.

It's – different.

"Turned out good," Nick says. Natasha glances at him. "Blonde really isn't your color, though."

The corners of her lips tug into a smirk. That's about as close to a compliment she'll get out of him for right now, but she'll take it.

She angles her head, taking it all in – the platinum blonde, the thick eyeliner, the pinker tint to her lips – and trying to decide whether or not she likes it. Not that it matters if she does or doesn't. This is Mr. Bishop's type, apparently, so this is what she'll have to work with. It's not bad, though. Whether or not it falls in her particular taste, she can always appreciate the work her team of stylists put into making her look the part. She already tried on the outfit she'll be wearing tonight, got to see the complete look in the mirrors as the team snapped a few pictures at different angles. But they still have a few hours before she's expected to arrive at his hotel room, so her clothes are packed with the rest of her equipment for the drive.

The elevator chimes open on their floor, and as they round the corner to the briefing rooms, she finds Steve leaning against the wall, a paper bag of takeout in hand.

It's so _stupid_ , but her heart may do that little fluttering thing when his eyes land on her. She knew he was part of her backup detail. And even if he wasn't, her hair is _dyed._ Of course he'd see the blonde eventually. She just doesn't know why his reaction seems to matter as much as the slight warmth to her cheeks suggests it does.

His eyes fall onto her, widening ever so slightly. She holds his gaze rather than turning away like she kind of wants to.

"Took the liberty of having your lunch brought," Nick says, already walking into the room. "Wouldn't want you passing out before the job."

"How thoughtful," she replies flatly. Steve lets out a chuckle, though she can tell that he's still distracted. It wouldn't be his first time seeing her in cover. She brings her hand up, tucks her hair behind her ear, and his eyes follow the motion. She—

She doesn't really know how to feel.

"I'm guessing you also have a thing for blondes," she comments, one eyebrow raised. It sounds like a challenge even to her own ears. She can't really help it, though.

His lips tug into a bit of a smile, but it doesn't feel like he's making fun of her, so that's something.

"No," he says, slowly, eyes still lingering on her hair. "No, not – not really." Then he meets her gaze again, smiles a little more. "It's not so bad on you, though."

It shouldn't make her so _happy_ to hear this from him, especially since it doesn't sound like it should be a compliment. But she knows it is, and, just this once, she's not going to pretend like it wasn't exactly what she wanted to hear – like he doesn't always know exactly what she needs to hear. She's not an open book, but he reads her just as easily.

(It doesn't piss her off nearly as much as it should. That's how she knows she's in trouble.)

"Thanks, soldier," she replies, patting his chest as she walks into the briefing room. She doesn't look over her shoulder, but she knows he's grinning.

... ...

"Nervous?" she asks, even though she knows she doesn't have to. She can tell that he is. It's not enough to be of any concern to the assignment at hand, especially since, if all goes well, she'll be the only one to show her face at the event. But it's enough for her to notice the way his grip tightens and eases on the steering wheel at random, which comes from his habit of fidgeting whenever he's preoccupied. She knows quite a few of his ticks after working with him so closely for a few years now. And she doesn't doubt that he knows hers, too.

"Worried," he admits. She turns her head, studies his profile against the light. Shades and a baseball cap do _nothing_ to diminish how distinctly attractive he is.

It's a good thing he's not going undercover with her. He's too recognizable, and he's a terrible liar. They'd be compromised in an instant.

"Don't be," she says, and, after a moment, the tension in his shoulders ebbs ever so slightly. His fingers relax on the wheel. It makes her feel… _strange_. Not just how quickly he listens to her, but the fact that she's able to ease his nerves at all, without really trying. She's not used to being a source of comfort, for anyone. "It shouldn't come down to a fight."

"You never know." She shrugs. He has a point, but still. "If it requires someone going undercover, then the mission already isn't that simple."

She wants to laugh a little, and it's in her voice as she points out, "You're not the one doing all of the work, you know."

"It's not me I'm worried for."

"Steve," she says. Her voice is softer than she meant it to be, but he has that effect on her, sometimes. If he wasn't driving, he'd turn to look at her. "I can handle it."

"I know you can," he replies. _It's not about that_ , is what she knows he wants to say, but he doesn't. His grip tightens on the wheel again. "Doesn't mean things still can't go south quickly. All the preparation in the world won't guarantee thing will go smoothly."

"No, it won't," she agrees. She has the urge to smile, so she does. "It's a good thing you'll be there, just in case."

"Just in case," he echoes. His eyes are still set forward, but there's something to his tone that Natasha catches, and, not for the first time, she wonders if him being assigned on her backup detail is entirely Nick's doing.

... ...

The team settles into their room at the hotel across the street from the venue, and she sips on iced water and wills her nerves to calm as everyone sets up around her. Acting under a cover is something that she's always done, and she's _good_ at it. She wouldn't have the reputation that she does if she wasn't.

That doesn't mean she's not allowed to have her own worries. Because Steve is right. Nothing about being undercover truly is _easy_ , and you, at every moment, have to weigh your options, plot two or three steps ahead. You constantly have to prepare, and react, all while making it seem as if you're going about things normally, like you're being _yourself_ , and it's difficult. Experience helps, but only so much. Every cover is different and so is every mark. That's just how it goes. The fact that this particular man is known to be dangerous will absolutely affect how she has to go about everything, because one little slip can put her in a very difficult situation, even with her team – with _Steve_ – at the ready down the street.

"Natasha," someone says, and she stands, taking the garment bag she gets handed and heading for the bathroom.

Her dress is gold with black lace and tights to match, leaves her shoulders bare and hugs her curves closely, and sits just low enough at the top and just high enough at the hem to not be entirely inappropriate, but still show off exactly what she needs it to.

She touches up around her eyes, reapplies her tinted lip gloss and brushes on a bit of blush atop her cheeks, and decides that she's finished.

When she steps out, Steve is standing at the bed, back turned to her as he clicks open the suitcase with her equipment: a video transmitter in one of the jewels of a gaudy necklace, an audio transmitter in both dangling earrings, an earpiece in her diamond stud (though, only to contact her in emergencies, because you run the risk of someone hearing).

"Are those good to go?" she asks.

"Yeah, just have to…" he starts, turning to look at her, and she feels way, _way_ too proud at the way his sentence trails off as his eyes settle onto her.

She arches an eyebrow, takes a few steps forward, until she's definitely in his space. "Turn them on?" she guesses.

His gaze shifts, glancing over her before moving back up to meet her stare. His eyes are dark, lips parted slightly, and she feels a warmth slide down her spine.

"Yeah," he says when he remembers to answer.

She hums in acknowledgment, arm brushing against his front as she reaches around him and into the suitcase. She half expects him to step away as she fastens her earrings into place, but he doesn't, and maybe she's reading into that a little too much, but she can't really help it. This isn't the first time he's looked at her in that way, and to hell if you think she doesn't enjoy it whenever he does. One of these days, she might just push him a little further, press herself a little closer, to see what he'll do. His reaction probably won't disappoint.

She slips her earpiece in, and then Steve gathers her hair, sweeping it over one shoulder before draping the necklace around her throat. The metal feels cold against her collarbone, but his fingertips are warm against the back of her neck as he clasps it into place.

"Good?" he asks, voice soft.

She looks up at him from under her eyelashes. "Good," she echoes. His thumb brushes over the clasp, and it's an oddly comforting gesture.

... ...

Mr. Bishop, at face value, is a very charming man. He kisses the back of her hand when she knocks on his door, holds his arm out for her as they step into the ballroom, introduces her to everyone that greets him and includes her in his polite conversation as they work the room.

And, even if he'd left her to quietly hang off of his arm, she wouldn't have been bored. At least a dozen faces in this room match the files of known inhuman handlers they had poured over during briefing, and she manages to get a few descriptions of locations that they'll be sending agents in to investigate. There is no shortage of potential suspects in this ballroom and they don't seem to be trying very hard to keep their conversations vague around her. They probably just assume she's too buzzed from all the champagne to think anything of it.

A little after midnight, Bishop sets his hand on her back, slides it lower as leans in. His breath is warm and thick with alcohol (and a powerful sedative she'd slipped into his wine).

"Shall we retire to the room?" he asks. She hums in agreement, though she knows he didn't ask her because he expected an answer.

She lets him pull her close before the elevator doors have barely shut, and she smiles as he kisses down her neck. Two of his men were just outside the ballroom when they'd been leaving, and they smirked at her like they knew exactly what was going to happen.

 _Good_ , she thinks. That means no one should be coming up to his room anytime soon, if not for the rest of the night.

Twenty minutes after she'd slipped it into his drink, the sedative kicks in, and he falls unconscious against her, fingers limp against the inside of her thigh. She pushes him off, kicks off her heels (they make her legs look _amazing_ , but she came too damn close to rolling her ankle in them when he'd backed her into the room) and gets to work.

Cracking the code on his locked suitcase is easy enough, and so is getting into his laptop. By the time the hotel door clicks open, she's already sitting at the coffee table, watching the screen but not really paying attention to it as the files get decrypted. "Natasha," Steve says, and she glances over her shoulder, grinning slightly as he walks over to her. The others are already sweeping the room, taking fingerprints and breaking into his other two suitcases and the safe provided by the hotel in the back of the closet. "Everything alright?" Steve asks.

"Shouldn't take much longer to get everything copied," she answers. The number of profiles he has in his trafficking network is unsettling.

"I meant with you," he says.

She glances down. Her dress is on the floor somewhere by the bed, her tights ripped, her gloss smudged. The only reason she's still wearing her bra is because she'd had the forethought to hook it back into place. She's not sure why it didn't occur to her to put her dress back on, too, but she could hardly breathe in the thing to begin with.

"I'm fine," she tells him. Because it's true. She's had marks get a lot further, take a lot more clothes off, than Bishop had. This is nothing.

Steve hesitates, and for a moment, she thinks he might push it further. This is hardly the first time they've worked together, but what they usually do is stealth, a few covert rescues and extractions, maybe an armored escort here or there.

He's never had to experience her undercover, never had to listen to it through her transmitters, and she can tell that something about it bothers him.

"Steve," she says, so he'll look at her – _really_ look at her. He presses his lips together. "I'm alright."

The look he gives her is only half-convinced, which she supposes makes sense, since she's only really half-convinced of the answer herself.

... ...

"Natasha," he says, voice soft, and she turns to look away from her reflection where she'd caught it in the glass window of the diner. Breakfast after late-night missions have kind of become their thing, and it's _nice_. It's comfortable. "Blonde really isn't your color," he tells her, lips curving into a grin.

She breathes out a laugh and his grin gets a little wider. "Get over it."


End file.
